Nama Ya Dahu Romo Danye Part 1 Complete Hausa Novel

Kano – The Center of Commerce and Culture
 
Kano is one of the major cities in Hausaland and serves as the commercial hub of the entire Nigeria. The state has forty-four (44) local government areas. It is a city rich in royal history and cultural prestige, widely respected across Hausa territories and neighboring regions. Kano is a large city where Hausa is the dominant language spoken by its residents, and it is also the most populous city in Nigeria.
 
Kano is famous for its long-standing trade and economic development, which earned it the title “Center of Commerce.” Historically, Kano has been known for its trading relations with people from the Middle East. According to the 2006 population census, Kano had over ten million (10,000,000) inhabitants, making it the most populated state in Nigeria. People from across the country and even from neighboring nations — such as Niger, Chad, Cameroon, and beyond — reside in Kano. There are also Chinese, Arab, and Western residents. Kano people are also deeply religious and devoted to Islam.
 
The Scene at Kofar Mata
 
In the early morning, despite the hour, the streets were already alive with activity. Children moved about — some buying bean cakes (kosai), others buying fanke (puff-puff), while some held roasted corn in their hands. It was around 7:30 a.m., and the community was busy preparing breakfast.
 
At the front of an unpainted house shaded by a large durumi tree, two cars were parked — a Golf 3 and a Vectra — clearly belonging to the household. A young man emerged from the house carrying a bucket full of water and a scrubbing brush. He began washing the Vectra. From inside the house, loud voices could be heard — a man shouting, followed by a woman crying. Out of curiosity and concern, I rushed into the house to see what was happening.
 
The house was surprisingly large and spacious with rooms arranged in rows like a small guesthouse. Men, women, and children gathered in the courtyard. A tall elderly man with white hair and beard was angrily shouting. Beside him stood a fair-skinned woman soaked with water, crying uncontrollably. The old man, filled with rage, said:
“Haula, stop crying! Let them come out so I’ll know if it was truly Gwadabe’s wife who poured toilet water on you! No one dares insult you in your husband’s house. I’ll sever family ties and chase Gwadabe and his family out of my house if this filth continues. I regret ever linking our family to Gwadabe’s wife.”
 
Gwadabe hurried out of his room wearing an old pair of jeans, shirtless, holding a shirt in his hand. He pleaded:
“Yaya Hambali, please forgive us. You too, Yaya Haula, forgive us. Iyabo didn’t intentionally pour dirty water on you — she didn’t know you were in the bathroom.”
 
Despite his calm explanation, the family’s anger toward Iyabo grew. Harisu, their younger brother, scolded Gwadabe harshly, accusing him of disrespect and of letting his wife dishonor the family. Yaya Hambali, furious and feeling disrespected, lashed out with more insults, saying Gwadabe had brought disgrace upon them by marrying Iyabo, who wasn’t of their tribe.
 
The conflict escalated — harsh words turned into threats and even a near physical fight. Harisu stepped in to stop Yaya Hambali from hitting Gwadabe. Despite everything, Gwadabe tried to defend his wife, reminding them that they were all Muslims and equal before God. But his words only fueled more anger. The family mocked and humiliated him and his wife, deepening the bitterness in the household.
 
 Iyabo’s Pain and Devotion
 
From the moment Gwadabe stepped out, my body trembled. I knew his relatives despised me and were waiting for my mistake. Unfortunately, today fate turned against me. All night, I had been anxious about our trip to Gwadabe’s village for a wedding ceremony. I feared the gathering — their looks, their whispers, and the shame I would endure.
 
When I heard what Gwadabe told Baban Nazifi, my heart sank. I came out, wearing a buba top and wrapper — the traditional Yoruba style — pushing my pregnant belly forward. Seeing my husband’s face filled me with pity. I knew he truly loved me, though his family had never accepted our marriage. Since marrying me, he had known no peace from his relatives, yet he never mistreated me. He cared for me tenderly, cherishing me as if I were an egg.
 
I fell to my knees and said, “Please forgive me, Baban Nazifi. Umman Nazifi, forgive me too. I swear I didn’t know you were in the bathroom. I didn’t do it intentionally.” Tears streamed down my face as I tried to hold myself together.
 
But then, Gude — Yaya Sukairaju’s wife — mocked me, saying, “Don’t defile our home again, Yoruba woman! You people are filthy and shameless! In your tribe, throwing waste water is normal! What kind of unclean people are you?” Her words stung deeply. I was proud of my Yoruba heritage, and her insult cut me to the soul.
 
Finally, Baban Nazifi thundered, “Gwadabe! When you return from Takai after the wedding, pack your wife and leave my house. I’m tired of seeing both of you!”
 
The whole compound fell silent in shock. Even his brothers and their wives were stunned. Slowly, everyone dispersed, leaving me and Gwadabe broken and speechless. Inside our room, I sat heavily on a chair and burst into tears.
 
Gwadabe placed his hands on his head, eyes red, trembling in despair. “Iyabo, please forgive everything you’ve seen and heard. Whatever happens at Takai, know that I love you — more than a mother loves her child. Forgive my family. You are my peace and happiness. Don’t cry; let’s prepare for our journey. Sukairaju has already found us a bus.”
 
His words melted my heart. Truly, Gwadabe loved me deeply. But despite his love, I couldn’t help feeling that fate had tested me beyond measure — my heart ached with love, pain, and endless trials.